Analysis of the work
“The Shot” A. S. Pushkin wrote during his most fruitful period - the Boldino autumn of 1830. At the same time, “Little Tragedies” and “The Tale of the Priest and His Worker the Stupid” were created. All these works are studied in literature lessons in the 6th grade.
The story “The Shot” was written in the genre of “realism” that was emerging at that time. According to literary scholars, the basis for its creation was an incident that happened to the poet himself. Pushkin was challenged to a duel by his acquaintance, officer Zubov, whom he accused of cheating. During the fight, the poet ate cherries, not paying attention to the enemy. Zubov shot and missed, and Pushkin abandoned his shot.
The work consists of two chapters. In the first, the plot begins, in the second, its ending. The same person speaks on behalf of the author, but the action takes place in different places. The book "Shot" has the main characters:
- Silvio is a retired hussar officer;
- The narrator is a young army man on whose behalf the story is told.
There are also minor characters. The author gives them the following characteristics:
- Count B *** is a man about 30 years old, attractive in appearance, the owner of a large estate. In his youth he was a hussar officer and fought a duel with Silvio;
- Countess B *** is the count's wife, a beautiful woman.
Reading a brief retelling of Belkin’s story “The Shot” for a reader’s diary will not give a complete picture of the work. This is not enough to reveal the topic or draw up an essay plan, but it will help you understand the meaning of the title of the story and remember the main thing in the development of the plot.
II
The soldiers dispersed into platoons to their quarters.
The parade ground was empty. Romashov stood undecided on the highway for some time. Not for the first time in the year and a half of his officer service, he experienced this painful consciousness of his loneliness and loss among strangers, unfriendly or indifferent people - this melancholy feeling of not knowing what to do with this evening. Thoughts about his apartment, about the officers' meeting were disgusting to him. The congregation is now empty; probably two ensigns are playing on a nasty, small billiards table, drinking beer, smoking and fiercely swearing and swearing over each ball; in the rooms there is the stale smell of a bad cook’s dinner - boring!.. “I’ll go to the station,” Romashov said to himself. - Doesn't matter".
There was not a single restaurant in the poor Jewish town. The clubs, both military and civilian, were in the most pitiful, neglected state, and therefore the station served as the only place where ordinary people often went to have fun and shake themselves up and even play cards. Ladies also went there when passenger trains arrived, which served as a small change in the deep boredom of provincial life.
Romashov loved to go to the station in the evenings, to the courier train, which stopped here for the last time before the Prussian border. With a strange fascination, he watched excitedly as this train, consisting of only five brand new, shiny cars, flew up to the station, quickly jumping out from around the bend, flying up at full steam, how quickly its fiery eyes grew and flared up, throwing themselves forward onto the light rails spots, and how he, already ready to pass the station, instantly, with a hiss and roar, stopped - “like a giant who grabbed a rock while running,” thought Romashov. From the carriages, shining through and through with cheerful festive lights, beautiful, elegant and well-groomed ladies in amazing hats, in unusually elegant suits emerged, civilian gentlemen emerged, beautifully dressed, carefree self-confident, with loud lordly voices, with French and German, with free gestures, with a lazy laugh. None of them ever, even briefly, paid attention to Romashov, but he saw in them a piece of some inaccessible, exquisite, magnificent world, where life is an eternal holiday and triumph...
Eight minutes passed. The bell rang, the locomotive whistled, and the shining train departed from the station. The lights on the platform and in the buffet were quickly extinguished. Dark everyday life immediately set in. And Romashov always spent a long time with quiet, dreamy sadness watching the red lantern, which was swinging smoothly, behind the last carriage, going into the darkness of the night and becoming a barely noticeable spark.
“I’ll go to the station,” thought Romashov. But immediately he looked at his galoshes and blushed with prickly shame. These were heavy rubber galoshes, one and a half quarters deep, covered to the top with thick, dough-like black mud. All officers in the regiment wore such galoshes. Then he looked at his overcoat, cut off, also because of the dirt, to the knees, with fringe hanging at the bottom, with greasy and stretched loops, and sighed. Last week, as he walked along the platform past the same express train, he noticed a tall, slender, very beautiful lady in a black dress standing in the door of the first class carriage. She was without a hat, and Romashov quickly but clearly managed to see her thin, regular nose, lovely small and full lips and shiny black wavy hair, which, from a straight parting in the middle of her head, went down to her cheeks, covering her temples, the ends of her eyebrows and her ears. Behind her, looking over her shoulder, stood a tall young man in a light pair, with an arrogant face and with an upward mustache, like Emperor Wilhelm’s, even somewhat similar to Wilhelm. The lady also looked at Romashov, and, as it seemed to him, she looked intently, with attention, and, passing by her, the second lieutenant thought, as usual: “The eyes of the beautiful stranger rested with pleasure on the slender, thin figure of the young officer.” But when, having walked ten steps, Romashov suddenly turned back to once again meet the gaze of the beautiful lady, he saw that both she and her companion were laughing with enthusiasm, looking after him. Then Romashov suddenly, with amazing clarity and as if from the outside, imagined himself, his galoshes, his overcoat, his pale face, myopia, his usual confusion and awkwardness, he remembered the beautiful phrase he had just thought and blushed painfully, to the point of acute pain, from unbearable shame. And even now, walking alone in the semi-darkness of the spring evening, he again blushed once again with shame for this past shame.
“No, why not go to the station,” Romashov whispered with bitter hopelessness. - I’ll walk around a little, and then go home...
It was the beginning of April. Dusk was deepening unnoticed by the eye. The poplars that bordered the highway, the white, low houses with tiled roofs on the sides of the road, the figures of rare passers-by - everything turned black, lost color and perspective; all the objects turned into black flat silhouettes, but their outlines stood with charming clarity in the dark air. In the west, outside the city, dawn was burning. As if into the mouth of a red-hot volcano, blazing with liquid gold, heavy bluish clouds fell and glowed with blood-red, amber, and violet lights. And above the volcano the gentle evening spring sky rose up like a dome, turning green with turquoise and aquamarine.
Walking slowly along the highway, dragging his feet with difficulty in huge galoshes, Romashov relentlessly looked at this magical fire. As always, since childhood, he imagined some mysterious, luminous life behind the bright evening dawn. Just there, far, far behind the clouds and beyond the horizon, a wonderful, dazzlingly beautiful city was burning under the sun, invisible from here, hidden from view by clouds imbued with internal fire. There, pavements made of golden tiles sparkled with unbearable brilliance, bizarre domes and towers with purple roofs rose, diamonds sparkled in the windows, bright multi-colored flags fluttered in the air. And it seemed that in this distant and fabulous city there lived joyful, jubilant people, whose whole life was like sweet music, whose even thoughtfulness, even sadness was charmingly tender and beautiful. They walk through shining squares, through shady gardens, between flowers and fountains, they walk, god-like, bright, full of indescribable joy, knowing no barriers to happiness and desires, not darkened by sorrow, shame, or care...
Suddenly, Romashov remembered the recent scene on the parade ground, the rude shouts of the regimental commander, the feeling of past resentment, the feeling of acute and at the same time boyish awkwardness in front of the soldiers. What was most painful for him was that they shouted at him in exactly the same way as he sometimes shouted at these silent witnesses of his today’s shame, and in this consciousness there was something that destroyed the difference in positions, something that belittled him as an officer and, as he thought human dignity.
And immediately, as if in a boy—there was indeed still a lot of childishness left in him—vengeful, fantastic, intoxicating dreams began to boil. “Nonsense! My whole life is in front of me! - thought Romashov, and, carried away by his thoughts, he walked more cheerfully and breathed deeper. “To spite them all, tomorrow morning I’ll sit down with my books, prepare and enter the academy.” Work! Oh, with hard work you can do whatever you want. Just pull yourself together. I’ll cram like mad... And now, unexpectedly for everyone, I pass the exam brilliantly. And then they will probably all say: “What’s so surprising here?” We were sure of this in advance. Such a capable, sweet, talented young man.”
And Romashov amazingly vividly saw himself as a learned officer of the General Staff, showing enormous promise... His name was written down at the academy on a golden plaque. The professors promise him a brilliant future, offer him to stay at the academy, but no - he goes into service. You have to serve out your term of command of a company. Definitely, certainly in your regiment. So he comes here - elegant, condescendingly careless, correct and impudently polite, like those officers of the General Staff whom he saw at last year's big maneuvers and on filming. He avoids the company of officers. Rough army habits, familiarity, cards, drinking - no, this is not for him: he remembers that this is only a stage on the path of his future career and fame.
The maneuvers began. A big two-way fight. Colonel Shulgovich does not understand the disposition, gets confused, fusses around people and fusses himself - the corps commander has already reprimanded him twice through his orderlies. “Well, captain, help me out,” he turns to Romashov. – You know, out of old friendship. Remember, he-he-he, how we quarreled! Please." The face is confused and ingratiating. But Romashov, saluting immaculately and leaning forward on the saddle, answers with a calmly arrogant look: “It’s my fault, Mr. Colonel... It is your responsibility to manage the movements of the regiment. My job is to take orders and carry them out...” And the third orderly flies from the corps commander with a new reprimand.
A brilliant officer of the General Staff, Romashov, is moving higher and higher along the path of his career... So the workers' indignation broke out at a large steel plant. Romashov's company was quickly requested. Night, the glow of a fire, a huge howling crowd, stones flying... A slender, handsome captain comes forward of the company. This is Romashov. “Brothers,” he addresses the workers, “for the third and last time I warn you that I will shoot!...” Screams, whistles, laughter... A stone hits Romashov on the shoulder, but his courageous, open face remains calm. He turns back to the soldiers, whose eyes are burning with anger because they offended their beloved commander. “Right into the crowd, company fire... Company, fire!...” A hundred shots merge into one... Roar of horror. Dozens of dead and wounded lie in a heap... The rest flee in disarray, some kneeling, begging for mercy. The riot is pacified. Romashov awaits gratitude from his superiors and a reward for exemplary courage.
And there is war... No, before the war it would be better for Romashov to go as a military spy to Germany. He will study German to perfection and go. What amazing courage! Alone, completely alone, with a German passport in his pocket, with a barrel organ over his shoulders. Definitely with a barrel organ. He walks from town to town, twirls the handle of a barrel organ, collects pfennigs, pretends to be a fool, and at the same time slowly takes down plans for fortifications, warehouses, barracks, and camps. There is constant danger all around. Its government has abandoned him, he is outside the law. If he manages to get valuable information - he has money, rank, position, fame, no - he will be shot without trial, without any formalities, early in the morning in the ditch of some oblique gunner. They compassionately offer to blindfold him with a scarf, but he proudly throws it to the ground. “Do you think that a real officer is afraid to look death in the face?” The old colonel says sympathetically: “Listen, you are young, my son is the same age as you. State your last name, state only your nationality, and we will replace your death penalty with imprisonment.” But Romashov interrupts him with cold politeness: “This is in vain, Colonel, thank you. Do your thing." He then addresses the rifle platoon. “Soldiers,” he says in a firm voice, in German, of course, “I ask you for a comradely favor: aim for the heart!” The sensitive lieutenant, barely hiding his tears, waves a white handkerchief. Volley…
This picture came out in my imagination so vividly and vividly that Romashov, who had been walking with frequent, long steps and breathing deeply for a long time, suddenly trembled and stopped in place in horror with his fists clenched convulsively and his heart beating. But immediately, smiling weakly and guiltily to himself in the darkness, he cowered and continued on his way.
But soon, swift as a stream, irresistible dreams again took possession of him. A fierce, bloody war began with Prussia and Austria. A huge battlefield, corpses, grenades, blood, death! This is a general battle that decides the entire fate of the campaign. The last reserves are approaching, waiting any minute for a Russian outflanking column to appear behind enemy lines. We must withstand the terrible onslaught of the enemy, we must defend ourselves at all costs. And the most terrible fire, the most furious efforts of the enemy were directed at the Kerensky regiment. The soldiers fight like lions, they never waver, although their ranks are melting every second under a hail of enemy shots. Historical moment! If only he could hold out for another minute or two, victory would be snatched from the enemy. But Colonel Shulgovich is confused; he is brave - this is undeniable, but his nerves cannot withstand this horror. He closes his eyes, shudders, turns pale... Now he has already signaled to the bugler to play a retreat, now the soldier has already put the horn to his lips, but at that second the chief of divisional headquarters, Colonel Romashov, flies out from behind the hill on a lathered Arabian horse. “Colonel, don’t you dare retreat! The fate of Russia is being decided here!..” Shulgovich flares up: “Colonel! Here I am in command, and I answer to God and the sovereign! Bugler, lights out! But Romashov had already snatched the horn from the trumpeter’s hands. “Guys, go ahead! The king and homeland are looking at you! Hooray!" The soldiers rushed forward madly, with a stunning cry, following Romashov. Everything was mixed up, covered in smoke, and rolled somewhere into the abyss. The enemy ranks wavered and retreated in disorder. And behind them, far beyond the hills, the bayonets of a fresh, outflanking column are already shining. “Hurray, brothers, victory!..”
Romashov, who was now no longer walking but running, animatedly waving his arms, suddenly stopped and had difficulty coming to his senses. Somebody's cold fingers seemed to be running along his back, along his arms and legs, under his clothes, over his naked body, the hair on his head was moving, his eyes were stinging from ecstatic tears. He himself did not notice how he reached his house, and now, waking up from his ardent dreams, he looked with surprise at the gate that was well known to him, at the liquid orchard behind it, and at the tiny white outbuilding in the depths of the garden.
– What nonsense, however, gets into your head! – he whispered confused. And his head timidly went into his raised shoulders.
Description of the hero and incident at lunch
The action of the first part takes place in a provincial town where a guards regiment was stationed. The young officers were bored by the measured garrison life. They were only entertained by their acquaintance with the retired hussar Silvio, who lived there, and who often hosted dinners for them. He was a gloomy man with a tough temper and a wicked tongue. He didn’t tell anyone why he received his resignation and why he lived in the outback. His income and net worth were also unknown.
Although Silvio's dinners were not luxurious, there was always a lot of champagne. This mysterious man mastered the art of unusually accurate shooting. Despite this, he never took part in the officers' conversations about duels. When asked if he had ever fought himself, he briefly answered that he had. The young officers believed that this excellent marksman had killed someone in a duel.
One day, at Silvio’s dinner, a strange incident occurred. The tipsy guests staged a card game, and the owner himself threw the bank. As usual during the game, he silently corrected the punters' mistakes in the notes. One young warrant officer, who had recently joined the regiment, did not like the fact that Silvio corrected his mistake. He demanded an explanation, but the retired hussar remained stubbornly silent. Then the angry ensign threw a shandal at him in a rage, after which the owner asked him to leave.
Everyone believed that Silvio would take revenge for the insult and challenge the offender to a duel. Knowing his extraordinary accuracy, they considered his opponent already dead. But contrary to expectations, there was no challenge to a duel; Silvio was content with a casual apology. This circumstance initially spoiled the reputation of the retired hussar. But soon everything was forgotten, and life returned to its previous course. However, one of the officers with whom Silvio sympathized most could not come to terms with his humiliation.
“Please tell me the name of the author...”
The harshest epithets of “Aka” went to Brusilov’s close friend, former infantry general Vladislav Napoleonovich Klembovsky (1860-1921). The double change of religion obviously meant his service to the emperor, the Provisional Government, and then the Bolsheviks.
But Klembovsky can hardly be classified as a careerist. And here “Ak” is unfair and biased. A Knight of St. George and a talented military scientist, during the revolution Klembovsky tried to resist the collapse of the army and the decline of discipline. In the summer of 1917, the general testified that he received “very often anonymous letters with my photographs cut out from magazines, with pierced eyes and corresponding threats”7. Remaining in Soviet Russia, Klembovsky diligently avoided participating in the Civil War: he was a member of the military-legislative council, chaired the commission to describe the war of 1914-1918...
Aka’s article would have gone unnoticed, but it caught the eye of Klembovsky’s son, who by coincidence also ended up in Finland. Georgy Klembovsky (1887-1952) - hero of the First World War, military pilot, lieutenant colonel, joined the whites. From the end of 1918 he served in the North; after the defeat of the Whites in the Murmansk region, he retreated to Finland. In the Lahti-Hennala internment camp I learned about a newspaper article.
The son, who found himself on opposite sides of the barricades with his father, was nevertheless beside himself with indignation. The very next day after publication, he prepared a stack of letters. I started with an appeal to the Chairman of the Temporary Committee for Refugees of the Northern Region in Norway and Finland S.N. Gorodetsky:
“I address you as a representative of the authorities with my most humble request.
The newspaper “New Russian Life” in issue 123 dated June 10 this year contains lies and libel against my father.
If the said newspaper is received by anyone living in your camp, then do not refuse to inform us of the contents of the two attached letters and my report.”[8].
This was followed by a letter to the editor of the newspaper Yu.A. Grigorkov:
“Please do not refuse to tell us approximately in what years he (Klembovsky. - Author) changed his religion twice and what goal he pursued (in more detail), so as not to exhaust everything with the words “in the interests of his career.”
I also ask you to provide the first name, patronymic, last name, rank and address of the author of the article, signed “Ak”, so that I can make more detailed inquiries from him about the data he has, which I do not know.
I could ask you to write a response to Mr. “Ak”’s article in your newspaper, but for reasons understandable to any developed and intelligent person, I must refuse.
I am confident that Bolshevism in Russia will come to a speedy end, and the future true history of Renewed Russia will be able to pay tribute to my father.”[9].
The third was a letter to the author of the note.
“I declare that you are a “liar and a scoundrel”…” “Dear Mr., Mr. Ak”
Being, as an employee of the former army of the Northern Region, interned in the Lakhte-Hennala camp, I cannot personally meet with you at this time, but for the lie you wrote in the newspaper “New Russian Life” No. 123 about my father V.N. Klembovsky, I declare to you that you are a “liar and a scoundrel.”
If you consider these modest epithets undeserved, then I am ready to give you satisfaction with weapons.
So that the above does not remain between us, I have sent certified copies of this letter to:
1) Colonel Fen
2) To the editor of the newspaper “New Russian Life”
3) Mr. Gorodetsky - to the Norwegian camp
4) and several other persons"10.
The whole thing was capped by a report to the chairman of the staff officer’s court of honor: “I ask that my report be sent to the Russian representative in Finland, Colonel Fehn, and I also ask that you request information about the first name, patronymic, last name, rank and address of the author of the article “Two Appeals” under the pseudonym “Ak.” eleven.
The search for Georgy Klembovsky was crowned with success. As it turned out, the outstanding Russian writer Alexander Kuprin was hiding behind the pseudonym “Ak”.
And he didn't accept the challenge.
“I can’t admit that permission with weapons is possible...”
On June 17, Kuprin replied to Klembovsky’s son:
“Dear Sir, Article No. 123 “N.R.Zh.” I wrote, A.I. Kuprin. You accuse me of lying, but there is not a single fact that refutes my political and official assessment of the gene. Klembovsky, you don’t bring him. Also, you could not insult me with your abuse. Don’t let me present you with an account of the evil that the generals who signed the appeal caused to Russia. These are the days of history. I understand that criticism of the actions of General Klembovsky will always painfully hurt your filial feelings, but I can neither change my views on this issue nor recognize the possibility of resolving it with weapons. A. Kuprin"
12.
Kuprin did not know that on June 30, 1920, in Rostov-on-Don, upon arrival at a new duty station, former General Klembovsky was arrested right in the carriage. On July 5 he was taken to Moscow. The former general was in Butyrka prison. He was accused of having relations with foreign military organizations. The first interrogation took place only in October - it seems that after the arrest, the former general was not particularly interested in investigators. In prison, Klembovsky's health deteriorated. In the summer of 1921, the general went on a hunger strike, to which no one responded.
On July 19, 1921, Vladislav Napoleonovich Klembovsky died after two weeks of hunger strike. And a year after the publication, which his son tried to challenge according to the laws of officer honor.
History of the duel
Everything became clear on the day when a package arrived at the regimental office addressed to the retired hussar. After reading the message, Silvio announced to the officers that he was leaving soon and called everyone to a farewell dinner . After it ended, when everyone went to their apartments, he asked the young man he liked to stay, on whose behalf the story was being told, and revealed to him the circumstances of his life. He explained that he did not challenge the officer who insulted him to a duel because he could not risk it.
It turns out that several years ago Silvio served in a regiment, where he was distinguished by his violent and cheerful disposition. His primacy among the officers was undeniable until a rival, a rich and noble young man, appeared there. He was a cheerful rake who was always lucky in everything. At first the young man tried to make friends with Silvio, but he failed to do so. Then he left without regret.
Silvio was infuriated that the young count was superior to him in everything. He tried to write epigrams to him, but he answered them cheerfully and witty. In the end, Silvio came to hate his rival. Once, at a ball with a landowner he knew, Silvio made a bad joke about a lady with whom the count had an affair, for which he hit him.
The duel was scheduled for the morning. The enemy came at her with a cap full of cherries. He was lucky again - he had to shoot first . The Count fired and shot through Silvio's cap. When Silvio took aim, his enemy stood calmly at gunpoint and ate cherries. The indifferent behavior of the enemy outraged Silvio, and he refused to shoot. To this the count replied that he could fire a shot whenever he pleased. After this, Silvio did not remain in the regiment for long and soon resigned.
He wanted to take revenge on his insulter, but realized that the young officer did not value his own life. So he decided to wait for the time when everything would change. And now, finally, this hour has come. They wrote to him that the count was going to marry a young beautiful girl.
Silvio decided to see if his enemy would stand as indifferently at gunpoint before his own wedding as he did in the regiment when he was eating cherries. Having told this story, he said goodbye to his friend and soon left.
Silvio's revenge
A few years later, the narrator resigned and settled in a poor village that belonged to him. There he was bored until it became known that its owner and his young wife, whom the author abbreviated as Count and Countess B *** . The narrator immediately went to visit them.
According to the author's description, the couple turned out to be very nice people. They welcomed their neighbor and made a very pleasant impression on him. The guest's attention was drawn to the painting, which was pierced by two bullets embedded in one another. He said he was once friends with a man who could have fired such a shot. The count asked what the name of this marksman was, and the neighbor said that his name was Silvio.
This name confused the young couple. The count asked if his friend had told him about the strange story that had happened to him. Then the narrator realized that he had met Silvio’s old enemy. The count told him about a new meeting with his enemy.
It happened 5 years ago on this estate, where the couple spent their honeymoon. One day they were returning from a walk, and it so happened that the count arrived first, and his wife fell behind. When he entered the house, he was informed that a man was waiting for him, who did not give his name. In the living room, the count saw Silvio, and he reminded him that there was a shot behind him.
The unexpected guest suggested drawing lots again. The count was very worried, because his wife was about to return. He got the first shot again. He shot against all the rules and ended up in the picture. A minute later, a frightened woman ran into the room, and the count began to assure her that they were just joking with an old friend. But everything that happened was not at all like a joke.
The woman was on the verge of fainting, and the count shouted at Silvio to shoot immediately. To this his opponent seriously replied that it was enough for him that he saw the fear of his enemy, let the rest remain on his conscience. He walked towards the door, but along the way he turned and fired, almost without aiming. The bullet hit the same place where the count shot. After this incident, Silvio disappeared. It soon became known that he had died while participating in the Greek revolt of Alexander Ypsilanti against Turkish rule.
"AK" accuses "collaborators of Bolshevism"
On May 30, 1920, central Soviet newspapers published an appeal by A.A.
Brusilov and other generals to former officers of the Russian army - with a call to forget old grievances and join the Red Army to protect Russia from the offensive of the Poles. This created a sensation in the country and abroad. The appeal was discussed, praised, cursed, and some could not hold back their tears1 - after all, for more than two years, officers in Soviet Russia were in the position of outcasts. The emigrant newspaper “New Russian Life”, published in Helsingfors (now Helsinki), also responded to the propaganda initiative of the Bolsheviks. On June 10, a note “Two Appeals” appeared in it, signed with the pseudonym “Ak”2. The author left no stone unturned regarding the “newly converted accomplices and comrades-in-arms of Bolshevism”3. The corrosive “Ak” was perplexed why the appeal bears the name of the chairman of the Special Meeting under Commander-in-Chief Brusilov, but there is no signature of the commander-in-chief himself; noted that the signatories did not even mention the hostage system; mocked: “Can all eight Soviet generals vouch for the mood in which Zinoviev and Trotsky will wake up tomorrow, having long since ridiculed and spat on stupid concepts: honesty, faithfulness to the word, compassion, conscience, duty?”4.
And finally, “Ak” got personal:
“Is there any faith in all of them at all, if we take Brusilov and Polivanov aside? Does Parsky, who saved his life at the cost of Riga, and his position by servility to the Soviet regime, inspire confidence? Was it not Klembovsky, who twice changed his religion in the interests of a career, catching it by the tail, before the war he received the nickname “soap maker”, and during the war - “confectioner”, and during the difficult days of Dukhonin, who discovered such flexibility in his relations with Krylenko? Is it not Gutor and Zayonchkovsky, who in the good old days were such ardent, such noisy monarchists that the very right-wing bison blushed with shame for them? Finally, isn’t Akimov a completely unknown quantity?”5
Ak's reproaches were largely fair. Today it is known that the original handwritten text of the appeal has been preserved in Brusilov’s personal archive. And it was different from what was published6. Party censors needed to win officers over to the side of the Bolsheviks, and not revive pre-revolutionary slogans.
Be that as it may, the son of Klembovsky, mentioned in the scathing note, challenged the anonymous author of “New Russian Life”.
Conclusions from the work
After reading the summary of the story “The Shot,” you can understand the meaning of this work and why it is called that. It says that it was important for Silvio not to kill his opponent, but to fire a shot so that he would feel the fear of death. He proved to the count that he should not take his life lightly.
Pushkin raises the question of how fate influences the lives of heroes, their decisions and actions . He shares his thoughts with the reader and draws the following conclusions:
- you cannot dispose of someone else’s life just to satisfy your own ambitions;
- petty grievances and wounded ambition are not worth killing your neighbor for;
- You cannot decide the fate of another person to please yourself, no matter how strong the resentment.
The main character at the end of the story acted wisely. He saw in the count not a bitter enemy, but an ordinary person who was dear to his loved ones. Silvio forgave the insult inflicted on him and left not a murderer, but a worthy man.
